Waking Up Dead
by RadioShack84
Summary: After a difficult mission, John is feeling strange and having trouble coming to terms with what happened. Shep whump. NOT SLASH.


Disclaimer: The characters of Stargate Atlantis don't belong to me, I'm just borrowing them for my own entertainment and no monetary gain whatsoever, but if someone would hire me to write storylines for the show, that would be super awesome!

A/N: This is my first Stargate Atlantis fic. It's also my first one-shot. The description at the start is based on something that actually happened to me one night, but I just thought it would be fun to see if I could spin it into a story, and describe it in the process. Naturally, poor John became my guinea pig. I have no medical degree, so if any of the medical facts are wrong, I don't claim to know what I'm talking about! Reviews are appreciated. Enjoy:)

* * *

John sat in the dark, shivering slightly off and on, his sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt doing little to drive away the cold feeling that seemed to permeate every cell of his body, and the unease that came with it. He felt sick, but not in the usual sense of the word. In fact, if he'd been asked to describe his physical condition at that moment, John would have said he was dead, or in the process of dying, and his mind just hadn't gotten the memo yet.

Upon waking, his body had felt cold as ice and numb inside and out, and he was sure that his blood had stopped moving through his veins. His heart felt perfectly still within his chest and even the surge of panic that realization brought didn't cause the damned thing to pound and make its presence known. Lacking any reassurance from the traitorous muscle, John had jabbed his fingers into the side of his neck, pressing so hard it hurt, frantically changing position three times before he felt the faintest sign of a pulse, one that seemed to be getting slower and weaker with every beat.

He breathed as quickly and deeply as his irrationally clenching diaphragm would allow, trying to saturate his blood with oxygen, which would hopefully coax his heart to speed up and continue beating. He wasn't exactly having trouble breathing, but he knew that part would be coming if he didn't act fast. Moving around was something that helped circulation, so John started to get up, only to drop back onto his pillow when the room spun crazily around him. He felt weightless—though in a nauseating free-falling-without-a-parachute sort of way—and freezing cold, and disconnected, and he vaguely realized that one of his hands was pressed against his chest, the fingers of the other still digging into his neck, desperately trying to feel whether his heart was still beating or if it had truly stopped, leaving just the inevitable darkness to close in and envelop him. Everything was quiet and still and John was dying here alone with his mind screaming that it wasn't supposed to end like this, but he was too dizzy and lethargic to move and beginning to convince himself that he deserved it, having failed two of his men in the worst way possible.

Slowly, as more moments passed by free of shrouding darkness and pain (dying was supposed to hurt, wasn't it?) a small amount of rationality returned to John's churning thoughts and he ever so slowly began to push himself upright. When the room remained stationary, he stood up and paced gingerly around his quarters for a few moments, but his body still felt like it possessed, at best, the temperature of a cold day in Antarctica. His circulation was non-existent, and even though he was most definitely breathing—an obvious sign that he was still very much alive under normal circumstances—John couldn't get past the thought that if he sat back down and didn't get his blood flowing then his heart would slow to a permanent stop. And even if he did deserve it, John Sheppard did not wake up dead, dammit! So he tried sprinting from wall to wall, throwing in a few jumping jacks for good measure, and finally felt a few sluggish thumps from within his chest cavity. They quickly faded, however, and he let out a small sigh of frustration and anxiety.

John's limbs were weak and tired as he sat back down on the edge of the bed, again feeling for his pulse, trying to count the beats and figure out whether it was pumping at an acceptable rate, but counting seemed to be beyond his mind's comprehension and he let his hand drop to his side while his mind wandered some more.

Saying that the mission they'd just returned from was a miserable failure was giving too much credit to the inhabitants of P3X-07A. SGA-1's quest to find another ZPM concluded with the sincerest form of finality before it even began. He lost two good men to some idiot who had taken offense to the color of his tac vest, of all things. How could you take offense to the color black?? What made John's ire all the stronger was that there was nothing he could have done to save his men, not one damn thing. Hell, if he had been standing two steps closer to the leader's position, he would have been counted among the casualties of their mission.

The colony's clan leader (whose name remained unknown to John) had uttered not more than three angry sentences about the Atlantis team disrespecting the beliefs of their people by showing up in 'the color and garb of dishonest secrets' and held up two fingers, and John was then staring in disbelief at his men crumpled on the ground. Two locals withdrew their poison darts from the dead Marines' necks and stepped back in line with the rest of the colony's entourage. After that, the clan leader pointed at the stargate, the clan leader's second-in-command nudged John in its direction with his fist after John lunged at him, and the rest of the entourage pointed pointy poisonous implements at them until they stepped through the event horizon.

John stood slowly and looked at his watch. 0023 hours. He was still freezing and unsteady, and continued to be rather certain that he had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but was sure as hell not going to just sit there and take it. Moving wearily, he headed out of his quarters into the corridors of Atlantis.

* * *

The day had been a trying one for all involved, and Carson Beckett was no exception. Days like today, when expedition members died needlessly and because of others' rash actions, were the days he would have gladly given up his unease concerning stargate travel just to be safely back on Earth in an instant and forget that the Pegasus galaxy existed. Thankfully, the rest of the team had come back in one piece, Colonel Sheppard's black eye being the only reportable physical injury.

The non-physical injuries were the ones that would linger, Carson knew, and Sheppard was bound to be among the heaviest casualties in that department as well. He only hoped his friend would be able to get past the mission with a minimum of guilt.

Rubbing his eyes, the Scottish doctor saved the report he was working on and switched off his computer. There would be time enough to finish it in the morning. The infirmary was deserted and it would be nice to leave it that way for a change. He turned off the light in his office and began to make his way out of the infirmary, but a small, nondescript sound caused him to glance back toward a heavily shadowed corner. For a moment, he thought he was imagining the huddled form sitting on the bed that occupied the corner, but as he moved closer, he immediately recognized the form as Colonel Sheppard.

John sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms resting across them, supporting his head. Not able to see his face, Carson wasn't sure if the man was awake or not, so he approached quietly, gently taking hold of John's wrist, meaning to get the man's attention and his pulse at the same time, but only succeeding in the first. John's head shot up and he jerked backward slightly in surprise.

"Sorry, son. I didn't mean to startle ya." Beckett placed a steadying hand on John's shoulder for a moment until he was sure the colonel had his bearings.

"Oh, hey Doc. Didn't figure you'd be here so late." John rubbed at his face, wincing and dropping his hand when he came into contact with the bruise on his cheekbone.

"Aye, well, reports have a way of pilin' up." Carson frowned slightly as he looked John over. "I wouldn't have expected to see ya here again tonight. Are ya all right, lad?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed somewhere quiet to think." John began to curse himself the moment the words left his mouth. That excuse was so full of holes that it made Swiss cheese look downright impermeable.

Carson raised an eyebrow at John, obviously waiting for a real explanation.

"Really, Doc, it's nothing important. I'm just gonna head back to my quarters and go to sleep." John unfolded his limbs and made to slide off the bed, but Carson blocked his way.

"Not until ya tell me what's goin' on, lad. If ya came all the way down here on your own, my guess is ya had a good reason. Did ya get hit harder than ya let on?"

"Nah. My face is sore, but I kinda asked for it." John looked at Beckett for a long moment, trying to come up with some excuse—any excuse—that would get the doctor to leave him alone, but his brain was being too sluggish to conjure up anything convincing. Finally he continued rather bluntly, "I guess I came down here because I woke up dead and I figured you'd know what to do about it if I didn't get better."

Beckett's frown deepened and he looked at Sheppard with a mixture of concern and alarm. "Son, that made even less sense than some of the things you've said after wakin' up from a bloody concussion!"

"Well it's not exactly easy to explain, Doc. That's what it reminded me of…not that I have any frame of reference for being dead, well, except for that one time with the bug, and I was unconscious then…but if I had to guess what it felt like, that's pretty much how I felt when I woke up."

John was still feeling rather cold, even after wandering through the corridors of Atlantis and eventually ending up at the infirmary. The whole experience, not to mention the day in general, had him a little freaked out, though instead of admitting that to Beckett he proceeded to list off his symptoms instead, not sure whether he succeeded in offsetting the doctor's concern about his earlier 'waking up dead' comment or intensifying it.

Sheppard didn't object when Carson wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and started to take his vitals. He berated himself for how relieved it made him feel that Beckett wasn't running for the defibrillator. He knew he was being ridiculous. He'd been wandering around Atlantis, breathing, hell, _talking_ to Radek at one point. He wasn't dead, and if he'd been having a heart attack surely _something_ would have hurt. But he was still immensely reassured to have Beckett making certain, which embarrassed him.

After listening to John's heart for a bit longer than usual, Beckett draped his stethoscope back around his neck. "Are ya still feeling weak or dizzy?"

"Not dizzy. A little weak I guess, but I'm probably just tired."

"Aye, I would imagine so." Carson pulled a notepad from his pocket and jotted down his observations as he talked. "Physically there's not much wrong with ya that I can see. Your blood pressure's a wee bit low, as is your pulse rate, which is most likely why ya feel weak, but otherwise…" he looked up to find the colonel back in his former position, knees up, arms wrapped around his torso, and trembling visibly. "Colonel Sheppard?"

"S-so c-c-cold…" Sheppard replied, his teeth chattering as he tried to burrow deeper into his shirt.

Carson sighed, placing his hand to Sheppard's forehead, half expecting to find signs of fever that he'd somehow missed earlier, but the colonel's skin was cool to the touch. "Under the covers with ya then, son. I'd best keep an eye on ya tonight." Beckett folded the sheets back and helped John get settled in, drawing the covers up to the shivering man's shoulders, somewhat concerned that the colonel hadn't objected to staying the night. Something wasn't right with the man, and Carson had a feeling that it didn't have to do entirely with whatever was causing his chills.

John curled up on his side, trying to stop shivering while Beckett went off to fetch something or other. He hadn't really been paying much attention when the doctor had said what that something was. A part of him wanted to go back to his quarters and hide from the world, depriving himself of human contact and sleep as punishment for leading his men into a terrible situation that he should have been able to prevent, or should have at least been the one to take the fall for. He contemplated getting up and leaving, but knew he'd already raised enough concern that Beckett would come looking for him if he tried. The rest of him screamed not to be left alone, which was why he hadn't tried to convince Beckett to let him leave in the first place. So he just lay there, letting the grief and anger wash over him along with the chills.

Well into his third litany of cursing himself, John felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Beckett standing over him. "How are you doing, lad?"

"J-just peachy." John commented, trying to curl even tighter as another round of chills hit him.

Carson patted his shoulder sympathetically. "I know you're cold, but I need ya on your back for just a moment so I can attach the monitor."

"Monitor?" he questioned, not wanting to give up the small amount of warmth he'd been able to achieve by straightening his body.

"Aye, your heartbeat sounded normal when I listened earlier, but since you're feelin' a bit ill, it doesn't hurt to be on the safe side."

How could he have forgotten about that? It was the reason he'd wandered down here in the first place, freaking out that he was dying. He was just glad that Beckett had the decency to humor him, but he'd have almost preferred it if the man had just told him he was an idiot and sent him back to his room. Now he had to deal with Beckett fussing over him, which was playing havoc with his confused and tired mind because while he felt like he deserved every bit of how crappy he was feeling due to the failed mission, he wanted nothing more than to let Beckett do his witchdoctor bit, as Rodney would call it, and make it all go away.

Giving into the latter impulse, John grudgingly stretched out and rolled onto his back, lifting his shirt and cringing as the cooler air hit his skin. Beckett worked quickly, and soon had the pads of the heart monitor leads in place on Sheppard's chest. He adjusted the wires and straightened John's shirt. "There ya are, lad. Now, let's see if we can get ya warmed up a bit."

"Good l-luck with th-that one," John muttered doubtfully as Carson drew the covers back up to his chest, then tucked a warming blanket securely around him, adding an extra blanket on top of that for good measure. Beckett then busied himself checking the readings from the monitor and making adjustments to it.

John stared at the ceiling, his mind turning back to the events of the day once again as he felt glorious warmth begin to seep into his frozen body. He felt his eyes start to drift closed, even though his mind was still whirring through the should-haves and could-haves, and he snapped them back open. He did so four or five times, not aware that Beckett was still there watching him, so he started slightly at the doctor's voice.

"Ya need ta sleep, lad."

"I should've done something." John's voice was rough and quiet.

"Aye, and what exactly do ya think ya could've done?" There was no question as to what they were referring to.

"Shot the bastards before they shot at us? Killed 'em afterwards? Stepped to the front and guarded my team? Hell, just about anything but stand and watch like I did."

"Ya were outnumbered, and you stepping up woulda just been tradin' one life for another."

"At least I wouldn't have woken up dead then," John quipped half-heartedly.

Beckett chuckled. "Aye, but as ya said, the waking dead I can still do somethin' about. The alternative's a wee bit more permanent."

"Yeah."

Carson checked John's monitors once more, pleased to see that his pulse wasn't quite as slow as it had been. His chills had subsided to just the occasional tremor as well. He noticed Sheppard's eyes drift closed once more, and this time they didn't immediately snap back open. "Get some rest, son. This wasn't your fault." He patted John's shoulder, and waited until his breathing deepened and the heart monitor confirmed he was asleep before walking back to his office. He would stay nearby in case his friend needed anything.


End file.
